by Jen Klein
“Have you even mentioned it? Did you tell him the date?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Why do you care? It’s not like you’re going.” Shaun slides a look at me. “Unless maybe you are…?”
“Don’t change the subject. You should at least ask him. You’re not giving him a chance to say yes or no. You’re not giving him a choice.”
Shaun is silent the rest of the drive. When he pulls up in front of my house, he turns to look at me. “Oliver doesn’t have a date.”
“Oliver hates me,” I tell him. “Thanks for the ride.”
• • •
Lily and I had plans to go to the mall after school so I could help her find accessories to go with her prom dress. She said she wanted something that straddled the line between cute and ironic, so we were hoping to find skull earrings decorated with rhinestones.
Sadly, I’ll never know what treasures awaited us at our local retailers, because instead, Lily and I are in the shadows underneath the bleachers, and she’s sobbing against me. “Why?” she keeps asking.
“I don’t know.” I stroke her dreadlocks. “It’s not fair.”
Lily’s punk boy broke up with her today…in a text message while she was in chemistry class. A week before prom. It definitely is not fair.
“Did he give an explanation?” I ask when Lily is finally wiping the tears from her face.
“I called him during sixth.” It surprises me, because that’s when she has private violin practice, which she never, ever skips. “I said I had a migraine.”
Apparently that’s what we do when we have boy problems.
“What did he say?”
“That he needs to be free. That Juilliard girls are too entrenched in their prescribed world. That we’re too rigid. Too—” She breaks off, then gets control of herself again. “Too focused. He says he wants anarchy in love. What does that even mean?”
It means he’s an ass. I don’t say it with my mouth, but my face must be expressive enough, because Lily starts crying again. I pat her. After a second, she pops her head up. “Do you think I shouldn’t go to Juilliard?”
“No!”
“But I could play violin somewhere here. Like kids’ birthday parties or something.”
“Lily, you can’t help it if a boy changes you, but you don’t let him change your plans.” I neglect to mention that kids don’t want violinists at their parties. “You are going to Juilliard and you will be an amazing famous violinist, because now you have suffered for your art.” I look into her dark, sad eyes. “That stupid punk-ass boy hurt you and that sucks, but years from now, you will be in a giant stadium, and thousands of people will be shattered by your playing, because your music will be so full of truth and heartbreak and mystery and…What?”
Lily is smiling at me through her tears. “Violinists don’t play in stadiums.”
“Where, then?”
“Concert halls. Symphony spaces. Auditoriums.”
“Then those,” I tell her. “You’ll play in those and you’ll kill it.”
She considers. Nods. “I just want to fast-forward to that part,” she says. “The part where it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I do, too.”
All anyone can freaking talk about is how prom is tomorrow. In homeroom, it’s Shaun and Lily. He convinced her that the best way to deal with a broken heart is to occupy herself with other things, so now she’s going to prom with him. Lily says she might only stay for an hour, but at least she won’t go through life wondering how things might be different if she’d attended her senior prom. When she says it, she and Shaun both turn and give me pointed looks.
I roll my eyes at them. “Subtle. Very subtle.”
“Just come,” says Lily. “We’ll dance together.”
“I’ll let you pick songs,” Shaun adds.
“Nope.” I can’t explain how prom sounds like an exercise in agony. Like a special kind of torture chamber where you have to pretend the pain isn’t happening.
• • •
It was Señora Fairchild’s fault. I was on my way to the bleachers when she rushed past me, hugging a giant pile of folders against her pregnant belly. We greeted each other with “hola,” and that’s where it should have ended, except one of her folders slid out from her arms, creating an avalanche situation, and I ended up on my knees beside her, helping shuffle them all back together. “Gracias,” she said. “Can I ask you for a favor?”
Since a teacher’s “asking” is in actuality a command, of course I said yes.
“Come to my room at the end of lunch,” she told me. “I have more things that need to be taken to the office. I’ll give you extra credit.”
“I already have an A.”
“Right,” she said. “Bueno.”
That’s why I hustled to finish eating, and why I’m hurrying through the center of campus while everyone else is still having lunch, and why I see what’s happening at the sundial. I stop to stare, because it’s so entirely weird.
The usual Beautiful People are hanging out, eating and chattering and laughing. That’s not the weird part. That’s totally normal. What’s strange—no, what makes absolutely no sense in my brain whatsoever—is that among them are Ainsley and Theo and Oliver.
Together.
Theo is sitting on one of the benches with Ainsley draped over him. His arm is around her waist, and her fingers are twined in his hair. Oliver is on the other end of the bench, and as I watch, Theo leans toward him and says something. They both laugh and Theo kisses Ainsley.
Like nothing ever happened.
Like none of it mattered.
At all.
If I was still driving to school with Oliver, if we weren’t avoiding each other, if my heart didn’t hurt, I would run over and slam one of my songs in his face. I would crow about it, about how he himself is living proof that high school is a drop in the bucket of emotion and importance. He would be his usual combo of amused and chagrined, and I would triumphantly choose something by Joy Division or Ume or Wax Fang. Tomorrow I would blast that new song as loud as the behemoth’s speakers would allow. Oliver would smile tolerantly as I sang and danced in my seat, and maybe I even would catch him nodding his head along to the music.
Instead, everything inside me hardens. I turn to leave….
But not before Oliver glances in my direction. Not before our eyes meet.
• • •
When I come out of Spanish, he’s leaning against the hallway wall with his arms folded over his chest. The sight of him jerks my body to a frozen halt and my heart into a racing sporadic beat. He doesn’t smile, but he does edge his chin upward slightly in my direction. It’s a move done by guys in bars on TV. It’s a gesture that represents everything I hate. It’s the smallest possible motion one can make to acknowledge another person.
But because this is Oliver and because he has repeatedly defied my expectations, I excuse it. I excuse him. I merely drop my backpack to the floor where I’m standing, right in front of the open door. Other students jostle me as they stream around both sides of my body, but I stay still, a stony outcrop in a rushing path of water.
Oliver peels himself off the wall and ambles over. He stares down at me and I stare up at him, and no one says anything for what seems like way too long. He doesn’t look happy and I have no idea how I look, because my insides are trembling and my thoughts are jumbled, so it’s anyone’s guess how that mess translates to my face.
“I’m a decent guy,” Oliver finally says, and waits for a response. When I don’t have one—because it’s neither a question that requires an answer nor something I’m willing to dispute—he continues. “I honor my promises. I’m supposed to drive you to school.”
“I’m the one who told you not to,” I remind him.
“In a text message. Thanks for that.” He folds his arms over his chest again. “I thought you’d want to know that you were right.”
&n
bsp; “About what?” It comes out of my mouth in a whisper.
“The playlist. I’ve been reassessing some things, and you were right about the music I’ve been listening to my whole life. It’s crap. It’s overly produced and fake, just like Flaggstone Lakes. In fact”—he pauses, running his fingers through his hair—“you were right about all this stuff being crap.” He spreads his arms in a gesture that encompasses himself, the school, everyone around us. Me. “You win, June. None of this matters. It doesn’t matter at all.” He crooks a smile at me, but there’s no joy in it. It’s bitter, flat, lifeless. It breaks my heart. “Call me if you want a ride on Monday.”
“I won’t,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says.
But he keeps standing there, looking down at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, because his expression is so blank. He’s not the Oliver I’ve gotten to know over this year: the one who’s exuberant, who cares about soufflés and bowling and football games.
That Oliver—the one who cares about everything—is gone.
And it’s my fault.
I’m alone in the farmhouse, alone in my misery. Mom is on campus and all my friends are getting ready for prom tonight, so I play games on my phone for a while. But not Mythteries. I don’t play that.
Somewhere around lunchtime, I try calling Dad. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message, but I do shoot him a text.
hey dad, what’s up?
Even though he didn’t pick up when I called, he texts back right away.
hi beautiful. in rehearsal, new play, amazing role.
closes in july so def able to come out & help u move into dorms. what do u need for college?
I turn off my phone. I don’t know what I need anymore.
• • •
Two long and boring and lonely hours later, I’m reconsidering my decision not to call Mom when I hear a familiar crunching coming from outside. It’s accompanied by the low rumbling sound of an engine. Those two noises together can mean only one thing.
The behemoth.
I rush to the front door.
Except it’s the wrong behemoth. This one isn’t black; it’s somewhere between beige and gold. And the person driving isn’t Oliver. It’s his mother, Marley.
Oliver’s mom’s white-blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail and she carries a giant designer bag. She’s finally remembered to return some socks and pajamas she borrowed from Mom when she spent the night. “There’s a book, too,” she tells me.
I smile and nod and reach for the bag, assuming she’ll drop it and run, but instead, she pushes past me into the house. “Can I borrow a pen?” she asks. “And some paper?”
I follow Marley into the kitchen and provide her with writing implements. She scribbles a note to Mom and glances up at me. “Hannah says you’re not going to prom tonight?”
“I’m not into it.”
“That must be a generational thing. Oliver is meeting some friends there, but he doesn’t seem excited at all. I practically had to drag him to get a tux.”
I have a sudden, overwhelming surge of desire to see Oliver in his tuxedo. I can imagine how he’ll look, all tall and blond and old-school movie star—
No. I mentally pack the image into a box labeled “Nice Try” and stash it away. Instead of thinking about Oliver, I reach out my hand to his mother and accept the note she gives me. Then I walk with her to the front door, where she thanks me. “Sorry to barge in unannounced.”
“No problem. Have a nice evening.”
I close the door and glance down at the note in my hand. It’s not anything exciting.
Hannah—
Thanks for the read.
Still on for coffee Monday?
—Mar
But for some reason, I keep staring at the note. And staring at it. There’s something about it. Not what it says, but how it says it. The neat, slanted handwriting.
I pound up the stairs and into my bedroom, where I rush to the bulletin board hanging on my wall. Holding Marley’s note up to it, I compare.
I was right. Marley’s handwriting is the same—like, the exact same—as the handwriting on my father’s birthday card. The one that came with the flowers he sent me. The one I cling to when I’m lonely or sad or angry. The one that was supposedly transcribed by the local florist.
Local florist, my ass.
Marley Flagg wrote that card.
• • •
Marley has already backed down our driveway and pulled onto Callaway when I slam out the front door. The behemoth takes off. I know it’s pointless to try to catch it, but I try anyway, racing down the driveway and into the street, waving my arms and screaming, “Mrs. Flagg! Wait!”
It’s the only way I’m going to find out the truth.
I chase her for a couple houses’ worth of road before slowing to a stop, my breath coming in short gasps. I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears covering my face….
And miraculously, ahead of me, the behemoth also stops. I drop my hands to my knees and try to catch my breath as the big car makes a slow U-turn and Oliver’s mom comes back for me.
She’s coming back with answers. Answers that I already know will break my heart.
• • •
“Did you write this?” It’s the third time I’ve asked the question, but Marley still hasn’t given me an actual answer. We’re standing on the front porch and I’m waving the florist’s card in the air.
“I’m calling your mom.” Marley dives a hand into her huge bag and scrabbles around in it.
“No.” I move to stand directly in front of her. “You owe me.”
“What do I owe you?” Marley says, not in a snotty way but like she’s confused, like she has no idea what I’m talking about.
“I covered for you. I knew about your marriage problems for months and I didn’t say anything to Oliver.”
“I appreciate that—”
“It ruined everything!” I’m getting more and more worked up with every passing second in which I am not given the simple courtesy of being told the truth. “You put me in a really bad position. Oliver is my friend and I should never have known more about his family than he did. That’s messed up and it’s not fair. It wasn’t fair to me and it definitely wasn’t fair to him, so please tell me the truth about why you faked that note from my dad. Enough, already!”
For a second, I think I’ve gone too far and Marley is going to yell at me, or tell on me, or ground me. But instead, she fixes those huge blue eyes on mine. “Oh, sweetie.”
“What? ‘Oh, sweetie’ what?”
Marley steps closer. She reaches for my hand and I allow her to take it, because even though I’m mad, I’m also a little terrified of hearing whatever she’s going to say next. “Your dad…” She stops and gives a little sigh. “Oh, honey, your dad is such a screwup.”
Words of denial and defense leap to exit my mouth, but I clamp my lips together hard and I keep them inside. I keep everything inside.
And I listen.
“It’s not your fault,” Marley tells me. “It’s not your mom’s fault, either. Hell, it’s probably not even his fault. It’s just who he is—one of those guys who never sees what’s right in front of him. He loves you, June. I believe that and so does Hannah. But your dad…he does the best he can. It’s just that your mom’s best is a lot better.” She squeezes my hand gently. “We had lunch together on your birthday, your mom and me. Your dad texted while we were in the restaurant, asking your mom to pick something up. Something for you.”
No. No-no-no-no-no.
“He had forgotten about your birthday until that morning.”
Until I sent him a picture of my decorated locker.
“Your mom said she’d take care of it, and we went to a florist for the prettiest bouquet we could find.”
Dad will visit. He’ll visit. He said he would.
“I wrote the note so you wouldn’t recognize your mom’s handwriting.”
He’s better th
an that. I need him to be better than that.
This time, I’m 100 percent sure the wetness on my face is not sweat.
“Come here, honey.” Marley pulls me into her arms. I let her rock me and stroke my hair before she pushes me back so she can stare into my face. “What can I do?”
“I want to go to the prom,” I tell her.
• • •
Marley and I are sitting awkwardly on the art gallery bench when Mom and Cash emerge from her office. The buttons on Mom’s blouse are fastened wrong, and Cash’s hair is a little wonky, which makes sense, because the door was locked when Marley tried the knob.
Cash gives me an apologetic look. “June—”
“It’s better for me if we don’t talk about it,” I tell him.
“It’s better for me, too,” he says.
“Well, I think we should have a healthy discussion,” my mom chimes in.
“Hannah,” says Marley, but my mom doesn’t notice.
“When two adults are in a relationship, it’s natural to—”
“Hannah!” Marley says again, and this time my mother shuts up and listens. “We have a more pressing matter than your sex life. June wants to go to her prom, which starts in an hour and a half. She needs a dress, accessories, hair, and makeup. I told her we could make that happen.” My mother opens her mouth, but Marley raises a finger. “In other news, June knows about the flowers and how her dad’s kind of a lovable loser—”
“Marley!”
I touch my mom’s arm. “It’s okay.”
“Put it on your maternal to-do list for future discussion,” Marley tells my mother. “Right now, we have one priority: to get June ready for her senior prom.”
I see my mother consider, weigh, decide.
“We should call Quinny.”
“On it,” says Marley. “She’s bringing options. Next issue: transportation. Is it too late to rent a limo?”
“I can take her,” says Cash. “Nothing says ‘prom’ like a pickup truck.”
“Actually,” says Marley, “Oliver is flying solo—”
“No!” It explodes out of my mouth like a bomb, and everyone stares at me. I collect myself. “I mean…that would be weird. You said he already has plans with his friends. Besides, I have an idea. Where’s my phone?”
